Showing posts with label work. Show all posts
Showing posts with label work. Show all posts

Friday, 14 July 2017

Back to Work (Factory Noise)

A poem from 1986



back to work again
it’s tiring lifted boxes all day long

back to work again
it’s a strain
to hear what people say
amidst the noise of machinery

back to work again
as a sea of cardboard faces
with permanent frowns
cry salt tears
into the bucketful of aching muscles

back to work again
as the odour of frozen vegetables
permeates my nostrils
pollutes my lungs
and returns to be recycled
into papier-mâché figureheads

back to work again
one of society’s drop outs
in this stinking pit
of rotting
human braincells
that lie idle while the people in white
try to stamp robot on our foreheads

back to work again

Monday, 29 May 2017

Plumbum

A poem from 2017

My heart he so heavy
Massa make me slave away
Jesus, He comin’!
Sittin’ at me desk all day
Waitin’ for computer to load
Glory, hallelujah!

Muss aks to use coffee machine
Put up hand to go toilet
Jesus, He comin’!
Angry cuss’mer bawl at me
Put ‘im on hold and talk to colleague
Glory, hallelujah!

Can’t catch me breath before nex’ call
Supervisor stan’ ober me
Jesus, He comin’!
Cuss’mer wid sexy voice
Wishin’ me could be wid her
Glory, hallelujah!

Force cheerful voice readin’ from scrip’
Loud colleague, can’t hear meself tink
Jesus, He comin’!
Lie to cuss’mer dat me help ‘im now
He gib me four out a ten ratin’
Glory, hallelujah!

Cuss’mer wid tick accent
Me aks him tree times his name
Jesus, He comin’!
Computer goin’ slow
‘barrassin’ silence on de phone
Glory, hallelujah!

Sun go down now me go home
Eat fish an’ chip an’ drink me beer
Jesus, He comin’!
Sleep eight hour in me bed
‘Morrow start ober again
Glory, hallelujah!

Wednesday, 13 July 2016

This Isn't Heaven

A poem from 1986

Watch me perform it on YouTube...





4 white walls surround me
but this isn’t heaven

Jesus is with me
but this isn’t heaven

angels screaming
blowing their trumpets
imitating a squeaking door
but this isn’t heaven

a plastic cup oozes imaginary liquid upon a sullied floor
worn away by a million automatons
cigarette ash tarnishes it’s furrowed brow
and spent matches dance the polka
in 4/4 time

an empty sweet packet lies dead on the ground
no, this isn’t heaven
this is the factory packing hall gents smoke room